Alone Again
by sociopathic-shezza
Summary: Something new is occupying Sherlock's brain. But it's not a fascinating case. It's a brain tumor. A month to live, a broken John, and an accepting Sherlock make a harsh deadline into something beautiful. Post-Reichenbach. Definite Johnlock.
1. Chapter 1

"I have a brain tumor."

The words are worse than a gunshot to the stomach.

"What?" I ask, my voice empty.

This can't be happening.

But it is.

"I said I have a tumor, John."

His voice is deliberately calm, but his eyes tell a different story. One of loss and loneliness, one of a world without him.

"When?" Is all I can manage to choke out, knowing that Sherlock will understand what I'm asking.

His answer is immediate.

"About a week ago." He looks down at his hands. "I needed some time to think."

I nod, taking a shaky breath.

"How bad."

He looks back up at me, his piercingly blue eyes meeting mine.

"I'm not going to make it," he says, his voice dull. Plain. Like he's accepted his fate. Which in all honestly, he probably has.

"How long."

"A month at most."

I don't know what my reaction should be. Maybe he expected sobbing. Or maybe he expected me to try and treat him.

I don't know what to do.

Don't know why I'm not on the floor in a puddle of tears.

Don't know how I'll go on without this madman I've grown to love.

I just don't know.

He stares at me, waiting for something. Anything. His usually calculatingly cold eyes are somehow different now. Dulled. That calculating side of him has been stored away. He doesn't want to be calculating anymore.

It's impossible to turn it off completely, but I think he knows that the cancer will do that for him soon enough.

"You know the symptoms."

"Headaches, nausea and vomiting, changes in speech, vision, or hearing, lack of balance and spatial orientation, potential memory loss, seizures, numbness in the arms and legs, and in my case, death."

Death.

The word echoes through my head, a haunting reminder of what Sherlock's telling me.

"What do you want from me?" I ask helplessly, finally looking up.

Sherlock takes a deep breath.

"I don't know. I of course had to tell you, but I wasn't expecting anything in particular. You can go about it however you choose. Whatever you do, I won't judge or ridicule your method of dealing with it."

He stands up and walks towards his bedroom.

"Where are you going?"

He turns and smiles sadly.

"I've been trying to keep a solid front, for your sake. But there's a harsh reality I have to face. Apparently a week hasn't been enough time."

With that, he turns once more and closes the door.

I'm numb.

I'm sure the tears will come later.

Maybe once my head hits the pillow tonight.

Maybe tomorrow, or next week.

Maybe never.

My chest aches as I look down at my scarred wrists.

Thick white scars mark each day after Sherlock's last passing.

The two years without him were brutal.

Each morning I woke up, and for a few fleeting seconds, I wondered what the day's case would be. Or what Sherlock's latest experiment was. Or how it was his turn to clean the flat.

Sometimes I thought I heard his footsteps echoing up the stairs.

And then those fleeting seconds were over, and I remembered.

There was no new case. No experiments. No messes to clean up. No light footsteps coming up the stairs.

Just me.

Alone.

Every morning had felt like a new loss. And every evening, I drew the blade across my forearm, the physical pain drowning out the emotional pain, if only for a moment.

I get off the couch and pour myself a glass of whiskey.

_Drinking isn't the answer,_ I tell myself as I take a swig of the burnt sienna liquid.

_There is no answer._

I take another drink.

_Not this time._

After the glass is gone, I shuffle to my bedroom.

Clothes off, pajamas on, into bed, covers up.

I lay in silence as I feel the warm tears run down my face.

The pit of my stomach feels like it's burning. Maybe it's the whiskey. Maybe it's the loss of my best friend.

Probably both.

_Death._

The word still echoes through his head, a final promise.

And it's unimaginable.

It's always been the two of us.

Me and the madman.

Me and Sherlock Holmes.

But with that final promise of death without revival, it'll be me.

Just me.

Alone again.


	2. Chapter 2

"He won't be in for the next month, sorry."

Those are the first words I hear as my eyes flutter open the next morning. They come muffled, from the living room.

I get up and see Sherlock putting the phone down.

"Excusing me from work?"

He nods slightly, and wrings his hands.

"I think I have the right to be selfish, in this case."

His words are clipped and he looks away quickly, heading back into the kitchen to make morning tea.

It just all feels… wrong.

"It's not selfish if you're going to die soon."

The second the words pop out of my mouth I regret them.

"I- I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Sherlock, that came out wrong," I stutter, ashamed of my blatancy.

Sherlock looks down, and I can see the single tear that drips off his face and leaves a splotch on the table. He clears his throat.

"No point in avoiding the obvious fact, is there." He looks up and directly into my eyes for the first time this morning. "I'm going to die."

I can only nod as my throat tightens.

Am I going to cry?

I better not cry.

Not yet.

It's too early in the day for crying.

"Damn it, Sherlock," I sigh shakily. "If these really are your last few weeks, I'm going to try and make it mean something."

He nods, almost imperceptibly.

"You have a month to live. I have no work to do, and soon enough, you won't be capable of doing work either. So, my proposition is that we do everything you've ever wanted to do."

Sherlock's head tilts to the side.

"Everything?"

"As long as it doesn't involve getting on a plane, then yes. Everything."

My hands tremble, and I grab Sherlock's to steady myself.

"Look, Sherlock, we can do anything. Anything at all. It sounds so unbelievably cheesy, I know. But. You'll be gone soon. And I want to have the best time I can with you while I still have something to live for."

By now tears stream down my face and I'm saying each word with a shudder of my spine.

So much for not crying.

Sherlock looks down at our hands and cries silently.

"You have nothing else to live for?" he whispers after he's collected himself enough to form words.

I don't even need to think.

"No."

And I mean it.

I have no family to make proud.

No significant other.

No friends I would keep in touch with after Sherlock died.

"I really don't. You're the only reason I enjoy living, and the one who hasn't left me yet, and even that's about to change."

Sherlock pulls his hands away and walks over to my side of the table. In a single motion, he pulls me up and against his body. At first I'm confused. But then I realize. I'm kissing Sherlock Holmes.

Wait.

I'm kissing Sherlock Holmes?

I pull away slightly, just so that I can speak.

"But," I breathe, searching for the words I don't have.

"I love you," the detective says plainly, as if it's the most normal thing in the world.

And then I kiss him back.

Because it is.

He's warm, and his lips are supple. He tastes like mint, and cigarettes, and it's just so… Sherlock.

"This is like an awful chick flick," I mumble against Sherlock's lips.

He smiles.

"I know."

"I love you."

"I know that too."

We stay that way for a while, our lips firmly pressed against each other, his hands around my waist.

When he pulls away reluctantly, his eyes and nose are red from crying, as are mine.

We must look ridiculous.

Scratch that.

We _do _look ridiculous.

Do we care?

Not in the least.

"Well, I can cross that off my list," the detective breathes.

The smile I give is genuine.

"Right," I sigh. "I'm gonna go take a shower, I'll be back in a few minutes."

Sherlock nods and sits down with his tea.

I lean over and kiss him desperately one more time.

"Don't go anywhere," I whisper, before backing away and into the bathroom.

* * *

Two minutes later, I'm standing under the hot streams of water, and letting them mingle with the hot flow of tears that I need to let out before I present myself to the public eye.

The thought of Sherlock's impending death is one that makes my stomach feel like it's twisting itself into an impossible knot.

When he stood on that building, I was so confused, so desperate. Deep down I must've known he was going to jump, but that thought didn't reach the surface in time.

Now I'm not confused.

I'm not desperate.

I'm just waiting.

And scared.

Absolutely terrified.

Scared that he's just going to disappear into thin air.

And it makes no sense. None whatsoever.

But at this point I am deprived of all mental clarity.

All faculty of reason.

And I'm left with what I feel.

It must be nice to be Sherlock Holmes sometimes.

Not now of course.

But in the moments when he knows.

When he doesn't feel.

Those moments of emotionless, factual clarity.

Those are what I crave.

* * *

"You want to take me shopping?"

Sherlock shrugs and smiles at my incredulous tone.

"I imagine that both my vision and my sense of style will begin to deteriorate soon, so I'd like to dress you up while I can," he chuckles.

I simply stare.

"Hey, you said everything."

"That I did," I admit, grabbing my coat.

For a fleeting moment, it all feels normal.

Familiar even.

"Come on, Sherlock Holmes."

I grin despite myself, and throw his Belstaff to him.

"The game is on."

* * *

Three hours and five shopping bags later, Sherlock and I stand on the corner, waiting for a cab.

I tug at my navy blue t-shirt.

"Don't worry, you look great," Sherlock sighs.

I blush.

"I know I said I would let you do anything and everything, but I think getting me one month's rent worth of new clothes might be going a bit overboard."

"Two month's rent, if you count the tux and top hat."

"You're impossible," I chuckle.

In a swift moment, I'm pulled into a chaste kiss.

"I know," the detective mumbles against my lips.

I watch as the taxi pulls up, just in time to have seen me dropping my shopping bags as Sherlock pulled me against him.

Sherlock laughs, and grabs my bags, shoving them into the front seat of the cab.

"Dammit Watson, get it together!"

"Apologies, _Holmes,_" I laugh sarcastically.

We scoot into the cab, and Sherlock tosses five pounds at the cabbie.

"Angelo's, step on it."

"Don't tell me to step on it," the cabbie snaps.

"Excuse me, he's a dead man walking, and if you don't step on it, I will_ personally _break one of your limbs," I snap right back.

It seems I have the magic military touch, because we're at the front door of Angelo's within 5 minutes.

The bell rings as we stumble inside with my bags.

Angelo comes out from the kitchen and stops dead.

A smile slowly spreads across his face.

I smile and nod, confirming the notion he's had since we first came here.

"Table for two."


	3. Chapter 3

I watch over the table as Sherlock stares out the window. His well-sculpted features are shadowed by the streetlight that shines through the window.

The first night we came here he did the same thing. Except then I thought "the detective and his blogger" would be an eternal title.

If only the world were so merciful.

"Do you remember our first time here?"

Sherlock's deep baritone shakes me from my thoughts.

I nod, and smile slightly.

"My first exposure to your madness? Oh yes, I remember quite well," I chuckle.

Sherlock smiles and shakes his head.

"Is madness really the appropriate word, John?"

I fake pondering for a moment.

"Yes."

"A bit harsh, don't you think?"

"Not at all," I laugh, kissing him lightly on the cheek.

The light humor and nostalgia all feels rather normal. The reasons for the nostalgia, not as much.

I sit back and stare out at Northumberland Street with the detective.

The shadows from the buildings and the glow from the streetlights create a patchwork, a geometric mess of light and a lack of it.

Cars zip by, their headlights catching me in the eye every time, but it's impossible to look away. Pain for a fleeting moment and then slow recession back into comfort.

And we just sit there.

Staring.

Thinking, wondering, dreaming.

Our minds probably on completely different paths, but our eyes meeting every few minutes to check if the other is still there.

We probably sit that way for hours, until the sky is like a giant pool of ink, and until Angelo puts a small piece of paper on the table, slipping out the door quietly.

_I don't want to disturb you two, but I'm leaving for the night. _

_Stay as long as you like. _

_Let him think until he decides himself that he's had enough; I can see that you never will. _

_Goodnight, _

_- Angelo_

I smile slightly, and look back up at Sherlock.

His eyes stare ahead, no longer analyzing and observing the outside world.

Simply looking.

He's done trying to analyze the quantifiable data.

And I can see in the way he stares that he just wants to see, for once.

Just wants to look out the window and see the world, not each individual gear that makes it turn.

And I let him do that.

I slip my hand into his, and feel the soft squeeze he gives as confirmation that he's still here with me. More to reassure himself that to reassure me.

And there we stay for the entire night.

It's impossible to grow tired when I know that exhaustion is all I'll feel soon enough.

Maybe I spend those nocturnal hours in Angelo's thinking about the future. Maybe about the past. Maybe I think about the lack of a case.

I don't really know.

My eyes are soon blank as I feel myself slip into an almost dream-like state. But unlike a dream, it's perfectly clear.

Just pure mental clarity.

But much like a dream, I lack the ability to see the awful and the unforgiving.

And a quiet wave of content washes over what's left of my conscious mind.

As I sit next to Sherlock Holmes.

Watching the sun rise above London.

And feeling very much alive.

* * *

Five days later I'm lying in a hospital bed beside Sherlock.

So much for feeling alive.

His headaches became unbearable the night prior, and I had to rush him to the hospital. So here we are.

I feel his heartbeat reverberate through his chest, an even beat that proves to me he's okay.

"Morning."

Sherlock's voice rumbles through his chest.

I look up and run my thumb over his jaw line.

"How're you feeling?"

He crinkles his forehead, and closes his eyes again.

"My head still hurts."

"I'm sorry, love."

I kiss him lightly on the neck and intertwine my fingers with his. He's unbelievably warm; running a high fever, probably.

"I know this is just the beginning, you know," the detective whispers.

"Well you're fine now."

"The evidence suggests otherwise."

I don't respond, as my chest tightens.

"Dormez bien. Je t'aime, chérie."

_Since when does he speak French?_


	4. Chapter 4

We spend the majority of the next few days in 221B, sitting and drinking tea. Well, _I'm _drinking tea. Sherlock is on the couch, in a deep and sedated slumber.

I watch his chest fall, slow and rhythmic.

He was thin to begin with, but now he looks almost gaunt. His trousers ride low on his hips, and the button up shirt that once fit so tightly is now a size too big.

I still haven't told our friends.

Our family, really.

"Through thick and thin" is a cheesy phrase, but it fits the band of middle-aged misfits we've created.

Sherlock and I agreed that _I_ should tell everyone; allow them to pity me instead of him.

I suppose it makes sense.

I guess I'll soon be needing it more than he will.

I'm abruptly shaken from my tired haze as my phone buzzes in my hand.

**_Meet me for a pint? –GL _**

**_Sherlock's sleeping for once. Sure. –JW_**

**_See you in 5? –GL_**

**_Yeah. –JW _**

I leave quietly, and walk through the rain to the pub on the corner.

I walk in and see Lestrade at the bar, with two mugs already waiting.

"Hey, how's it been?" He asks cheerily, once I sit down next to him.

"Good," I chuckle, faking a smile. It's been surprisingly easy lately. I suppose you just get used to it.

"That's all I get?" Greg teases with a lopsided grin. "Come on, how's life been?"

I look down into my amber beer, trying to find words. How do you tell a family member that their annoying, but extremely intelligent little brother is dying?

"Sherlock has a brain tumor," I blurt out. No build up is even necessary. Best to just say it outright. It's not like there's any getting around it.

His eyes say it all.

First there's confusion.

Then realization.

Shock.

Pain.

Grief for the man that isn't even gone yet.

"How long?" he chokes out, knowing what I'm implying.

"Less than a month."

The Detective Inspector takes a shuddering breath as a tear rolls down his cheek. And I know exactly how he feels. Like the will to live has just evaporated. What used to be a reservoir of ambition and joy is now just mist floating through the air, something that neither of us can quite grasp.

"Shit," Greg breathes, his eyes squeezing shut.

We sit in silence for the better part of 20 minutes. It's not like either of us has anything worth saying.

Neither of us realizes we're crying until we look at the other.

"It's so twisted," Greg sighs. "For the world to give us someone like him, and then take him away so soon."

He runs his hand through his silver hair.

"He's only 32, for god's sake!" He roars, slamming his mug on the bar. He rests his forehead on the cold wood and goes back to silently crying.

I want to join him, but I know that if I start, I won't stop until I have nothing left to give.

I take a deep breath and steady my shaking hands.

"Would you mind telling the Yard?"

Lestrade lifts his head from the bar and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Yeah, of course."

I lift my glass in what should be a celebratory gesture. Now it's like announcing a funeral march.

"To Sherlock Holmes," I say, my voice hollow.

Greg picks up his glass and clinks it against mine.

"To Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

I shuffle to the door of 221B and lean my head against the cold wood. Little drops of rain feel like darts against my skin as the London rain starts up again.

I turn away from the door and lean heavily against it, sliding down to a slumped sitting position. The cold pebbles ingrained in the concrete dig into my arse as I bring my knees up, resting my chin on them.

All hope of recovery. Of going on. Of creating a new life after Sherlock is dead.

All gone.

Because I know that I can't.

Can't recover.

Can't go on.

Can't create some sort of godforsaken life.

But I have to.

The thing about loss is that you can't stop it. You can't slow it down.

It just keeps coming back for more.

And it's not like you can stop it. It just keeps screaming at you.

Screaming until it's silent.

And the silence, the space where that person used to be, is deafening.

* * *

Cold. Wet. Empty.

These are the first things I feel when I wake up.

Oh yeah. I'm out on the stoop.

I rub my eyes and look out through the heavy downpour, my eyelashes weighed down by water.

If it weren't for the light pollution, London's sky would be pitch black. Instead a dark amber blanket cloaks the city.

I'm numb. I barely feel the door open behind me. Barely feel the larger body sit down next to me on the stairs.

I'm shaking as he wraps a blanket around me.

Crying as he kisses my lips, soft and gentle. But desperate.

My breath comes in choked gasps as I let tendrils of darkness and exhaustion bury their way under my skin.

And the silence finds another way to scream.


End file.
